Misery
by Yume Takamiya
Summary: She's a foreign exchange student. He's from the elite. Who is he? OC


Disclaimer: I don't own POT, though if I did wouldn't be writing fics about this haha. I only own the main character.

I could not believe it. I never thought it would happen to me.

Love at first sight.

My world trembled and my bones shook, my very core quivering as I thought of the two of us breathing the same air. He stood six feet away, an island surrounded by a sea of people all vying for attention, like waves crashing incessantly against a hard rock. Amidst all the noise, I could hear my erratic breathing as my heart pounded like crazy. I could not look away. I was totally, inadvertently, utterly besotted.

Just a few hours ago, my world wasn't insane. It was a little strange, yes, but definitely nothing like the acrobatics that it was pulling off right now, like a man suddenly high on acid. Acid. Yes, it felt that way. I felt high. I could stand all day, just watching him.

Hyoutei Gakuen—the school of the elite, the rendezvous point of the best, where the brightest gems are shined and polished both figuratively and literally, since I assume that one would have to pay in stones just to afford the tuition.

I had stood outside the gates that had its jaws wide open, my hand that held my acceptance letter trembled as I felt the weight on my shoulders, pressure building as the reality of my situation slowly sunk in along with the saliva that I swallowed to keep my own throat from choking me. It was painfully obvious that I stood out from the other Japanese students; I was not only short but also wide-eyed, my sun-kissed skin practically a spot of black water in the sea of white snow.

I remember forcing one foot to move in front of me, my worn leather shoe making a muffled sound as it pressed on the ground-and another. And another. Finally, I was in: there was no turning back. Remembering to change my shoes at the entrance hall and replace them with my _uwabaki_*, I picked my way around as gracefully as a blind woman in the middle of an intersection during rush hour. The culture was radically different: it didn't help that my country was still in the process of "developing" and what exacerbated the situation more was the fact that I was practically at the bottom of the foodchain. Foreign Freshman. One million plus years of evolution worked its magic as my survival instincts kicked into gear and I became aware and extra sensitive of the people around me. I knew the seniors took an immediate dislike to me—how was I supposed to know that _that_ particular table was reserved for them? Last time I checked, the chairs didn't have their names engraved in script, furnished with gold and platinum and bore the seal of the Prime Minister of Japan. I was very tempted to throw my Hello Kitty lunch box at them, to watch the symphony of rice, _nori _and _umeboshi_ explode in their faces. But I digress.

To summarize, it was not a good day for me. I was getting ready to leave for my part-time while trying to pick the pieces of my hope and happiness that was shattered by a bunch of immature glorified apes when I noticed the excitement and electricity in the air. A group of girls ran to a certain direction just outside the main entrance hall. Curiosity overpowering me, I followed them casually to see what the hullabaloo was all about. To my surprise, the trail of fan girls ended at the tennis courts where over 200 men in identical jerseys milled about and practiced with their rackets. What further astonished me was that not one of them took notice of the sea of screaming estrogen—focus and determination were reflected in their eyes.

I smiled despite myself. I don't know if the other girls saw what I did given their more, ah, shall we saw hormonally saturated minds but I always loved seeing a hard working man. As I decided that I've had enough of tennis to last me that day, my eyes casually swept the crowd—and saw him. Standing in the middle of the court among lesser man, like the alpha male that he was. He stared at me, eyes intense with an emotion that I could not place. It took me five minutes to realize that he was not looking at me but at my general direction but by that time I was way past caring and was already six feet under.

Daaaaaaamn.

* * *

><p>The week passed me like a whirlwind, my emotions erratic like a yo-yo played effortlessly by a professional. I had little sense of time—what day is it? What month? I knew it was lunch time because I spied him eating in the cafeteria with the other Hyoutei Regulars. I realize often times that it was time to go home when he goes off to practice. He became my clock, the guiding hand that decides which way the current will wash me. And I had no intention of fighting back.<p>

I had started a journal and it was filled with nothing but him. Every page was a letter for him, a discourse on what he liked and didn't, the pictures I had cut out from the school paper pasted in lovingly bordered by careful cursive writing of the date and occasion. I even went as far as map the routes he take and his usual itinerary. I know I'm obsessed, bordering on psychotic: I would probably have had myself arrested if I saw myself. But I couldn't get enough of him.

I still have my pride—I'm not the confessing kind of girl. My culture prohibits me. In my country, the men are the one who confess their feelings; if the woman was the one who knelt and confessed her undying love, it was considered as demeaning and an insult to your femininity. I held onto that at least. To compensate, I got my hands on all the information I could get—I wanted to be a part of his life, even how miniscule. Even if he saw me as the psychotic stalker that I am turning into. Which I think, he totally does.

* * *

><p>As usual, I stood at my corner and quietly watched during the regulars' practice before the time comes when I must leave for work. For some reason that no one could fathom, the usual cool-headed King of Hyoutei Gakuen, Keigo Atobe-sama, was fiery hot. Hot as in angry hot.<p>

"Gakuto, what the hell do you think you're doing? Put more energy into it!"

Gakuto just smirked and looked at Atobe-sama, taunting him to push the envelope. And apparently it worked since Atobe rained holy hell on Choutaro next.

"CHOUTARO! CONTROL THE DAMN BALL!"

"S-Sorry!"

"Talk is meaningless! Damn it. What is it with you people today? Jiro, FOR THE LOVE OF EVERYTHING THAT'S HOLY, WAKE UP YOU BASTARD!"

I swear I saw Jiro jump three feet in the air, woken by Atobe-san's sudden outburst. He wasted no time prostrating himself before the king, raining apologies before running off to run some laps.

"Oi Atobe, what's wrong with you today?"

Atobe-san did not answer and instead focused his icy glare on his next hapless victim. Me.

"You, stop stalking me already. Come over here." He gestured, irritated with being bothered to talk to me.

"I-I never stalked you!" I denied but he was relentless. I had no choice but to walk to him since I did not want to aggravate him any further by shouting. Besides, I would never win in a shouting match against _him _of all people.

"Do you play me for a fool? You've been following me around all week. And that notebook in your hand proves it. Just like Seigaku's data man. Now, why don't you hand it over so we can end this futile resistance?"

"N-No! I didn't—" I tried to defend myself but he cut me off mid-sentence.

"If it's not me then I presume that you wouldn't mind showing me."

I stood flabbergasted by his apparent smug, confident, victorious and almost evil smile. Before I could react, he yanked the journal out of my cold fingers and flipped it open shamelessly, right smack in the middle where one of the pictures I clipped from a school paper was pasted.

Atobe stared at the journal in his hand, his eyes wide and lips pursed as his teammates crowded around the notebook that contained my most private thoughts. I had half the mind to scream and hit them with their respective rackets when I saw him enter. The Hyotei Gakuen regulars trespassing on what I considered sacred were suddenly insignificant—all of them faded to nothing, their faces, their voices, their eyes— as the whole world screeched to a stop. It did not matter if Atobe had all the money in the world, or that Oshitari was a genius. It even mattered little that I found Gakuto cute. I only saw one man and one man alone. The only one who could drive my heart crazy and make my head spin as he quietly lugged two racket bags around.

Munehiro Kabaji.

A/N:

Uwabaki – soft shoes made for indoor use


End file.
